Prince of Fools. Mark Lawrence

my fingernails. ‘There is a door into death because we live in an age of myth. Our ancestors lived in a world of immutable laws. Times have changed. There is a door because there are tales of that door, because myths and legends have grown about it over centuries, because it is set in holy books, and because the stories of that door are told and retold. There is a door because in some way we wanted it, or expected it, or both. This is why. And this is why you must believe the tales that have been told today. The world is changing, moving beneath our feet. We are in a war, children of the Red March, though you may not see it yet, may not feel it. We are in a war against everything you can imagine and armed only with our desire to oppose it.’

      Nonsense of course. Red March’s only recent war was against Scorron and even that had fallen into an uneasy truce this past year … Grandmother must have sensed she was losing even the most gullible of her audience and switched tactics.

      ‘Rotus asked “where”, but I know where the door is. And I know that it cannot be opened.’ She stood from her throne again. ‘And what does a door demand?’

      ‘A key?’ Serah, ever eager to please.

      ‘Yes. A key.’ A smile for her protégée. ‘Such a key would be sought by many. A dangerous thing, but better we should own it than our enemies. I will have tasks for you all soon, quests for some, questions for others, new lessons for others still. Be sure to commit yourselves to these labours as to nothing before. In this you will serve me, you will serve yourselves, and most importantly – you will serve the empire.’

      Exchanged glances, muttering, ‘Where was Red March in all that?’ Martus perhaps.

      ‘Enough!’ Grandmother clapped her hands, releasing us. ‘Go. Scurry back to your empty luxuries and enjoy them while you can. Or – if my blood runs hot in you – consider these words and act on them. These are the end days. All our lives draw in toward a single point and time, not too many miles or years from this room. A point in history when the emperor will either save us or damn us. All we can do is buy him the time he needs – and the price must be paid in blood.’

      At last! I hurried out among the others, catching up with Serah. ‘Well that settles it! The old bat’s cracked. The emperor!’ I laughed and flashed her my cavalry grin. ‘Even Grandmother isn’t old enough to have seen the last emperor?’

      Serah fixed me with a look of disgust. ‘Did you listen to anything she said?’ And off she strode, leaving me standing there, jostled by Martus and Darin as they passed by.

       4

      From the throne room I sprinted down the grand corridor, turning left where all my family turned right. Armour, statuary, portraits, displays of fanned-out swords, all of them flashed past. My day boots pounded a hundred yards of staggeringly expensive woven rug, luxuriant silks patterned in the Indus style. I turned the corner at the far end, teetering on the edge of control, dodged two maids, and ran flat out along the central corridor of the guest range where scores of rooms were laid ready against the possibility of visiting nobility.

      ‘Out the fucking way!’ Some old retainer doddered from a doorway into my path. One of my father’s – Robbin, a grey old cripple always limping about the place getting underfoot. I swerved past him, Lord knows why we keep such hangers-on, and accelerated down the hallway.

      Twice guardsmen startled from their alcoves, one even calling a challenge before deciding I was more ass than assassin. Two doors short of the corridor’s end I stopped and made an entrance to the Green Room, gambling that it would be unoccupied. The room, chambered in rustic style with a four-poster bed carved like spreading oaks, lay empty and shrouded in white linens. I passed the bed, wherein I’d once spent several pleasant nights in the company of a dusky contessa from the southernmost reaches of Roma, and threw back the shutters. Through the window, onto the balcony, vault the balustrade and drop to the peaked roof of the royal stables, an edifice that would put to shame any mansion on the Kings Way.

      Now, I know how to fall, but the drop from the stables roof would kill a Chinee acrobat and so the speed with which I ran along the stone gutter was a careful balance between my desire not to fall to my death and my desire to not be stabbed to my death by Maeres Allus or one of his enforcers. The giant Norseman could bludgeon me a way out of debt altogether if I managed to secure his services and make the right wagers. Hell, if people saw what I saw in the man and wouldn’t give me good odds then I could just slip him some bonewort and bet against him.

      At the far end of the stables hall two Corinthian pillars supported ancient vines, or vice versa. Either way a good, or desperate, climber could make his way to ground there. I slid the last ten foot, bruised my heel, bit my tongue, and ran off toward the Battle Gate spitting blood.

      I arrived there winded and had to bend double, palms on thighs, heaving in great lungfuls of air before I could assess the situation.

      Two guards watched me with undisguised curiosity. An old soak commonly known as Double, and a youngster I didn’t recognize.

      ‘Double!’ I straightened up and raised a hand in greeting. ‘What dungeon are the queen’s prisoners being taken to?’ It would be the war cells up in the Marsail keep. They might be slaves but you wouldn’t put the Norseman in with common stock. I asked anyway. It’s always good to open with an easy question to put your man at ease.

      ‘Ain’t no cells for them lot.’ Double made to spit then thought better of it and swallowed noisily.

      ‘Wh—?’ She couldn’t be having them killed! It would be a criminal waste.

      ‘They’s going free. Tha’s what I heard.’ Double shook his head at the badness of the business, jowls wobbling. ‘Contaph’s coming up to process them.’ He nodded out across the plaza and sure enough there was Contaph, layered in his official robes and beetling toward us with the sort of self-importance that only minor functionaries can muster. From the high latticed windows above the Battle Gate I could hear the distant clank of chains, drawing nearer.

      ‘Damn it.’ I glanced from door to sub-chamberlain and back again. ‘Hold them here, Double,’ I told him. ‘Don’t tell them anything. Not a thing. I’ll see you right. Your friend too.’ And with that I hurried off to intercept Ameral Contaph of House Mecer.

      We met in the middle of the plaza where an ancient sundial spelled out the time with morning shadows. Already the flagstones were beginning to heat up and the day’s promise simmered above the rooftops. ‘Ameral!’ I threw my hands wide as though he were an old friend.

      ‘Prince Jalan.’ He ducked his head as if seeking to take me from his sight. I could forgive him his suspicions, as a child I used to hide scorpions in his pockets.

      ‘Those slaves that put on this morning’s entertainment in the throne room … what’s to become of them, Ameral?’ I moved to intercept him while he tried to circumnavigate me, his order-scroll clutched tight in one pudgy fist.

      ‘I’m to set them on a caravan for Port Ismuth with papers dissolving any indenture.’ He stopped trying to get past me and sighed. ‘What is it that you want, Prince Jalan?’

      ‘Only the Norseman.’ I gave him a smile and a wink. ‘He’s too dangerous to just set free. That should have been obvious to everyone. In any event Grandmother sent me to take charge of him.’

      Contaph looked up at me, eyes narrow with distrust. ‘I’ve had no such instructions.’

      I have, I must confess, a very honest face. Bluff and courageous it’s been called. I’m easy to mistake for a hero and with a little effort I can convince even the most cynical stranger of my sincerity. With people who know me that trick becomes more difficult. Much more difficult.

      ‘Walk with me.’ I set a hand to his shoulder and steered him toward the Battle Gate. It’s good to steer a man in the direction they intended to go. It blurs the line between what he wants and what you want.

      ‘In